


The Baker Street Chronicles

by BeautifulFiction



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-26
Updated: 2019-10-12
Packaged: 2019-11-06 01:43:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 31
Words: 11,917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17930402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeautifulFiction/pseuds/BeautifulFiction
Summary: An ever-growing collection of drabbles, 221bs, ficlets and shorts centred around BBC Sherlock.





	1. On The Brink

It wasn’t fair. John had never had a thing for hands. By all accounts, Sherlock’s pale, spidery fingers should not have the power to change his mind. Yet even now, years into their friendship, he found himself enthralled.

For god’s sake, he wasn’t even doing anything particularly sexy, like romancing his violin or brushing his fingertips over his lips. Instead, he was handling the mold of a shoe print found at a crime scene, tracing the ridges and furrows with fascination.

‘Who made this?’

Lestrade sighed, scrubbing a hand over his face. ‘Anderson, I think. Why?’

John winced, dragging his mind out of the gutter as he braced himself for Sherlock’s scathing reply. It seemed everyone else in the room had done the same. Donovan’s lips pinched tight and Anderson stood, stiff as a board.

‘Remarkable.’ Sherlock tilted the cast, apparently oblivious to the fact that everyone was staring at him. ‘You’re looking for a person of five-and-a-half feet with a pair of knock-off Gucci’s from this year’s men’s collection.’ He picked up the cast of the other foot. ‘There’s a knee brace on their left leg, and judging from…’

A smile flashed across Sherlock’s face, and he placed the cast down, almost reverent, before whirling away. A beckoning flick of those slender fingers had John following as Lestrade’s confused questions faded from earshot.

‘So, where are we going?’ he asked.

Sherlock grinned, sharp and wicked. ‘Anderson may be useless in almost all aspects, but it seems he has a knack for moulage. His casts of those footprints were exemplary.’

‘And?’ John shook his head, not seeing how that made Sherlock bolt from the room like a hound on the scent.

‘Particulates, John! Particulates! A distinct mix of spices you don’t find just anywhere.’ Sherlock whirled, grabbing John’s shoulders and bringing them both to a halt as he unveiled his deduction. ‘Our thief spends most of their time at Brixton market.’

John blinked, his mind struck blank not by Sherlock’s conclusion but by the brush of his fingers against the bare skin of John’s neck. It was nothing – an accidental point of contact – but that did not stop his heart from jumping into overdrive.

How one man could be so aggravating and intoxicating John would never know.

‘Right,’ he croaked, wetting his lips and stammering in surprise as Sherlock’s fingers grabbed his cuff, practically dragging him out of the Yard.

He couldn’t say what made him do it. Some instinct, perhaps. A desperate need to hold on to Sherlock, who always seemed to be on the brink of leaving. With a quick twist, he pulled his jacket free and grabbed Sherlock’s hand, matching his stride as their fingers entwined.

A flicker of that quicksilver gaze – amusement, not disapproval – and John’s heart soared, heady with exhilaration and relief.

The chase was on.


	2. Calumny

‘You made that up!’ John’s cheeks ached with the effort of hiding his grin. Sherlock’s face at his accusation was a priceless sight. The cocktail of outrage and disbelief made him look constipated. In fact, it rather strengthened the resemblance between him and Mycroft.

‘Tell me, John. What has my brother done to deserve such a calumny?’

‘Oh, so you believe him, then?’ John raised his eyebrows, delighted that he had beaten Mycroft at his own game. ‘Calumny means “false accusation”, so you think I’m wrong. You think he didn’t just pull that deduction out his… hat.’

It would be easy to take offence at Mycroft’s surprise, but John swallowed it back. He only knew “calumny” because he and Greg had looked it up yesterday for a crossword clue. Not that he was going to tell either Holmes that particular fact.

‘You’ve believed stranger things,’ Sherlock pointed out, his indignation ebbing as he titled his head, pinning John with that hungry, all-seeing gaze. ‘Why draw the line now?’

John swallowed and shifted his weight. He’d been trying to get a reaction – to stop Sherlock folding in on himself beneath the burden of his brother’s presence. Mycroft meant well, but Sherlock never flourished beneath his brother’s scrutiny.

It had worked, but now he could only manage the weakest of reasons. ‘Because it’s bollocks.’

Sherlock watched him, his pale eyes seeing far too much. Not for the first time since they became flatmates, John felt like a short book with big letters: easily read. Once, he had wanted to hide from that searching gaze, but these days there was something almost comforting in it.

‘John’s right. It is bollocks.’ Sherlock shrugged at his brother, heaving a sham of a regretful sigh. ‘I couldn’t deduce anything of note from your lawyer’s appearance. Especially not his fingernails.’

Mycroft looked between the two of them, his narrow nostrils flaring with annoyance before he rolled his eyes and shook his head. John didn’t think he believed Sherlock’s confession for a minute, but he waved a hand dismissively. ‘Then you had best be off. I shall see you again soon.’

‘Not if I can help it,’ Sherlock promised, holding the door open to Mycroft’s office to let John through before shutting it behind them with a decisive click.

They strode through the building in silence, the stifling air heavy around them until they stepped out into London’s brisk afternoon breeze. John took a deep breath, relishing the taste of it as he scrubbed a hand through his hair.

‘It wasn’t really bollocks, was it?’ He narrowed his eyes and peered up into Sherlock’s face, feeling a ridiculous surge of guilt for doubting him.

‘And Mycroft knows as much,’ Sherlock promised. ‘He didn’t need me. He just wanted to watch me dance. Patronising at best.’ He quirked an eyebrow at John. ‘Your challenge gave me the perfect excuse to escape. It was –’ That generous mouth pursed, as it so often did when they entered the arena of sentiment. ‘Good. It was good. Deliberate, too, if I’m not mistaken.’

John huffed, bumping his shoulder into Sherlock’s. ‘A bit, maybe, but you’ve got to admit, deducing the lawyer was selling on information by the state of his manicure… Seems a bit of a stretch, even for you.’

Sherlock sighed, but it was not his normal huff of irritation. More, it was the sound of someone who had tried explaining to others a dozen times before, and had only managed to confuse them further. ‘In any given case put before me, outlining the chain of deductions that brings me to my conclusions only clouds the issue. The manicure was part of a bigger whole. If Lestrade were asking, I would give him as much information as possible to encourage his belief. Mycroft, on the other hand, deserves no such thoughtfulness.’

‘Right.’ John nodded, knowing he shouldn’t be surprised. Sherlock only acted thoughtless. ‘Well, how about we get back home. Maybe there’ll be a real case waiting for you.’

‘Not for me.’ Sherlock raised a hand to call a taxi, his mouth twisting in a wry smile as he shook his head. Pale eyes sparkled, making John’s stomach swoop and his heart thud in his chest. ‘For us.’


	3. Cherchez La Femme - Look For The Woman

Sherlock could not say when he first began to search for Irene Adler’s influence behind every case. Before his fall from grace and the rooftop of St Bart’s, certainly. Maybe he had done it from the first moment of their meeting: scoured the shadows for a glimpse of her knowing smile.

John would not understand. He would see the romantic – the sexual and nothing more. He would assume infatuation and fall into a funk of jealousy, as if he had some prior, unspoken claim to Sherlock’s affections that neither of them acknowledged.

He would be right, of course, but that was neither here nor there.

Irene was beautiful, but not in a way that stirred Sherlock’s blood. She possessed vivid intelligence and a manipulative manner to match. She was the queen on the chessboard, deferring to the king’s title while wielding all the power herself.

The things she could do if she set her mind to it... Dealing with Moriarty would be child’s play in comparison. That was why Sherlock found himself turning over aspects of every investigation in an effort to discern her touch.

So far, he had found nothing.

Perhaps some would see her absence as a curse, but he knew better. Irene’s absence was a blessing for him and John both.


	4. Obbligato

Sherlock sighed, irritable to the point of wretchedness. How had it come to this? How had he reached a point where even the solace of his violin lay beyond his reach?

John was at work, and the flat loomed empty. No experiments scintillated his mind, and no case emerged to distract him. Normally, he turned to music for release, but his violin lay mute in his grasp, neglected as he pondered his inability to play.

The rattle of keys made him turn, one eyebrow raised in surprise. A glance at John when he came up the stairs was enough to read his exhaustion: a day of dull patients and an interminable commute home.

‘Oh, are you playing?’ John’s smile wobbled as he shrugged off his coat. ‘Or just scratching at it?’

Sherlock sniffed. ‘Playing,’ he promised, bringing his violin to his shoulder. His heart raced, panicked that, once more, he would be unable to perform. Except John, it seemed, made all the difference. As if the floodgates had opened, the notes poured forth, and Sherlock let out a faint sigh of relief as the music welled up to wash away his frustrations.

In music, composers noted essential components in the score. Obbligato. For Sherlock to conduct the chaos of his thoughts into a symphony, he needed this.

Not an audience.

John.


	5. Take-Away

There was something tragic about a take-away eaten alone.

Before John, Sherlock would not have given the thought a moment’s notice. Nor, in fact, would he have bothered to feed the petty demands of his growling stomach. Things had changed over the years.

Now, he ambled along a cold street, eating fish and chips that tasted like ash in his mouth. No companionable laughter reached his ears and no friendly weight nudged his shoulder. Initially, he had thought John’s distance a puerile punishment: a way to make him feel guilty for his long absence.

In many ways, that would have been preferable to the truth. At least in anger, there was a core of feeling: a heart of sentiment. Yet over the months since his return, even that spark had faded into chilling indifference.

John did not care for the thrill of the chase. He did not care for Baker Street, and as for his thoughts on Sherlock…

Pursing his lips, Sherlock shook his head, ignoring the ache beneath his ribs. There was nothing to gain from these morose meanderings. If John’s departure hurt, then who did he have to blame but himself? He was the one who had opened up to sentiment, and this was the result: misery and melancholy.

Only the Work remained, as steadfast as John’s new bride.


	6. Gold: For Heather

‘It’s for the case,’ Sherlock promised, pressing a jewellery box into John’s hand. ‘If we are going to find out who murdered the waiter, then we need to get into that hotel. It’s rather selective of its clientele.’

John closed his eyes in disbelief. ‘You want me to pretend we’re married?’ He opened the box and sighed at the tasteful wedding band: a pale, subtle gold. Not brash or brassy. ‘You honestly think they’ll believe us?’

‘No, but they’ll believe this.’ Sherlock waved an envelope at him. ‘A marriage certificate, courtesy of Mycroft.’

John hesitated. Indulging in a fantasy like this, even for a case, was dangerous. It would be all to easy to forget they were shamming. As it was, most people they met assumed they were a couple. This just put the icing on the cake.

He could pretend to be married to Sherlock. He wouldn’t have a problem with that, in public at least. It was returning to platonic friendship behind closed doors that would give him grief. But then, when would he get a chance like this again? To live his wildest dream, just for a little while…

Slipping the ring on his finger, he swallowed, his heart racing. He had never considered himself romantic, but he could not deny the truth:

It was a perfect fit.


	7. Tender: For AnotherWellKeptSecret

Sherlock looked up from his notes, a shiver running down his spine. He had not noticed the fire dim, the flames turning to embers as London’s night drew in. Baker Street, old as it was, could not boast good insulation. Drafts whispered around the window frames and frost drew its patterns on the inside of the windows.

Normally, he did not bother himself with such things. His body was transport, and his comfort irrelevant. Except, well, it was not just his comfort at stake any more.

John snored, slumped in the squashy armchair with his legs stretched out in front of him. Sherlock could not pinpoint how long ago he had drifted off, but it seemed he had been there a while, cramped and uncomfortable.

Reaching for the blanket on the back of the sofa, Sherlock spread it out with a flick of his wrists, tucking it around John’s shoulders to ward off the chill. Cautiously, he slipped a cushion behind his head, John’s nape warm beneath his palm as he eased it into position.

‘Thanks, Sherlock.’

Perhaps he should be embarrassed at being caught being so – so tender – but his usual discomfort did not materialise. There was no judgement in that sleepy blue gaze, only something soft that made butterflies thrash in Sherlock’s stomach, warm and thrilling.

‘You’re welcome, John.’


	8. Legacy: For Star

Sometimes, John thought he would never escape the legacy of the war. Not just the limp and the tremor, though both were bad enough. No, the worst of it was the grey veil that plagued him wherever he went. After the lush green landscape and bloody horror of Afghanistan – the mad whirl of life and death — London seemed lifeless: like living in a painting.

The army had changed the shape of him, moulding him into something that no longer fit into a civilian-shaped hole. Normality chafed at his jagged edges, and every moment only seemed to highlight how different he had become.

‘Who would want me for a flatmate?’

‘Funny you should say that.’

It was what normal people did, wasn’t it? Looked for someone to share the rent? In London it was that or sell your kidney for the privilege of a measly little bedsit. Mike’s friend was not normal though, not by a long shot. He was…

Different. Like John but not. He did not fit in to the world around him either – too bright, too quick, too sharp. Sherlock Holmes: a bloody work of art – strangely beautiful, pale and vivid, but there was nothing passive about him. He was always moving, thinking, watching…

Gunmetal eyes and a smile like a scalpel: most people would have fled.

John fell.


	9. Waiting: For Molly

Patience had never been one of Sherlock’s virtues, yet it always seemed necessary. All his life he had been waiting for others to catch up to him. His peers at school lagged behind, and then the officers at the Yard did the same. Infuriating!

This time, though, there was too much at stake. Now, he had to fall in line – to dance to Moriarty’s little tune – at least for a while. So he vanished, dead to the world, and he waited for his moment.

At last, after too many months, the time came to make his move.

A rumour dangled like a lure was all it took. Moran may be a predator, but he had lain dormant too long. Eagerness for the hunt made him clumsy. Sherlock used that to his advantage. A swift distraction, a poisoned glass and the last of Moriarty’s loyalists followed in the steps of his master.

It was almost too easy.

Sherlock shivered, his breath leaving him in a rush as he stared at the corpse. Here, in this impoverished place, one more body would not cause a stir, and he could not bring himself to feel guilty for breaking apart the bars of his invisible cage.

Just like that, the waiting game was over.

He could go home. To London. To Baker Street.

To John.


	10. Craft: For Melissa

Sherlock sprawled across the bed, the sheets twisted around his body as he bathed in the satisfying afterglow. Loose-limbed and languid, he could only hum in approval as John draped a lazy arm over his waist and nuzzled at his shoulder-blade.

Spent, at least for the time-being, he was happy to relax, his busy mind wiped blank by John’s attentions. To say he was skilled at the art of pleasure would be a gross understatement. At some point in his youth, within the long, awkward cusp of adolescence, John had discovered his talent for sex. Yet that alone could only take him so far. It was clear, to Sherlock at least, that he had spent the intervening years honing his skills and mastering the craft.

He had never given the term “love-making” much credence. To his ears, it sounded a touch ludicrous and coy. It had taken John to show him how wrong he was. Done well, sex was not merely about the joining of two bodies, or even the pursuit of mutual ecstasy. John never failed to make him feel special. Not just one-in-a-million, but one of a kind.

Miraculous.


	11. Glitter: For Heather

‘Beautiful, aren’t they?’

John looked up, examining the sparse scatter of stars that sparkled in the night sky: glitter spilt on a black canvas, elegant and untouchable.

Not unlike the man who walked at his side. At least at first glance.

He dropped his gaze to Sherlock’s profile, a fist of longing curling in his chest. That first day, he had looked at Sherlock like he used to look at the night sky, full of wide-eyed wonder. Yet John would never touch the stars. He would never feel the heat of their brilliance or relish their warmth on his face. They were unknown and unknowing.

Not like Sherlock at all.

John admired the sharpness of his cheekbones and the striking contrast of his curls, the fullness of the lips and strength of his shoulders. He looked like a bloody work of art: one that John could touch.

He bumped his shoulder into Sherlock’s arm, smiling as those interstellar eyes came back down to earth.

To him.


	12. Kiss: For AnotherWellKeptSecret

‘John!’

Sherlock grabbed John’s coat, pulling him away from the swirling water at the river’s edge. Even in the dim twilight, he could see the blood at his temple. He looked too pale, his clothes sodden from the Thames and his body lax.

Stones bit into Sherlock’s knees as he fell to the ground at John’s side, his numb fingers searching for a pulse. Water dripped from his slicked curls, and his clothes clung to him. There would be time for discomfort later. Right now, he had more important matters to attend to.

‘Not breathing,’ he whispered, taking some reassurance that a heartbeat thudded beneath his fingers, at least for now.

 A deluge of information rushed through his mind, guiding his hands as he lifted the angle of John’s chin and pinched his nose shut before exhaling into John’s mouth. ‘Come on,’ he whispered, ‘Come on, John.’

 A second rush of air, then a third before, suddenly, John responded.

 It was no gentle rousing, and nor should it be. The body jerked and the chest heaved: the instinct to survive taking over.

 John rolled, spluttering and retching on filthy river water. Every breath rattled, and Sherlock winced, doing his best to help John onto all fours so he could cough as hard and long as he needed too.

 ‘An ambulance is on its way,’ he promised, sagging as the electric tension of fear and desperation fled. He felt wrecked himself, soggy to his skin, but unlike John, he had kept his head above water.

 At last, John sagged against him, his back to Sherlock’s chest and his head tipped back so he could suck down all the air he needed. His hand – cold and small – groped for Sherlock’s, grabbing his fingers and giving a surprisingly strong squeeze.

 ‘Thanks,’ he rasped, letting Sherlock support his weight. ‘That was – was good. A good thing.’

 ‘Of course.’

 Sherlock swallowed, his mind reeling. He had no extra clothes to offer John for warmth, and no way to dress his wounded head. He had done all he could: so little and yet, to John, it was everything: hope, opportunity, salvation…

 The kiss of life.


	13. Suffice: For Molly

‘The Work will not always suffice.’ 

Sherlock rolled his eyes, his bow screeching across the violin’s strings. The raucous noise, perversely satisfying, did not even make Mycroft flinch. Not a good sign. Normally, auditory abuse would drive him out of the room. Choosing to endure such caterwauling meant that Mycroft would not be content until he thought he had made his point.

‘Leave,’ Sherlock commanded, as disdainful as ever. It did not work, of course, but he had to try. He could tell from the way Mycroft gripped his umbrella – not a weapon but a crutch – that whatever he had to say would be uncomfortable for them both. Well, if his brother would not flee, then Sherlock at least planned to make him suffer.

He lifted his bow once more, already composing the most discordant melody he could conjure on such short notice.

‘John, on the other hand…’

Mycroft smirked as Sherlock’s hand twitched the wrong way, dragging a truly awful, involuntary racket out of his beloved instrument.

His knuckles cramped, itching to tighten around the slender neck of the violin. It would snap. Only that knowledge offered any restraint, and he set the instrument back in its case. A casual observer might have noted his reverence and thought it charming.

Mycroft had more sense. He knew the warning signs of Sherlock’s temper better than most.

The umbrella swung up between them, the point hovering a fraction of an inch from Sherlock’s chest: a warning and an obstacle.

‘You know I’m right.’ The haughty edge to Mycroft’s expression melted, revealing something softer beneath. Another manipulation, Sherlock surmised, though there was a very slim chance that it was genuine sentiment on display. ‘He is good for you. And you for him.’

‘Make your point.’ Sherlock snapped, hating the turn of the conversation. It had put him on the back foot, leaving his skin crawling and his body tight with discomfort. John was not something he wanted to discuss with anyone – let alone Mycroft.

‘This arrangement –’ Mycroft indicated Baker Street and the comfortable sprawl of their co-existence. ‘—it may not always be enough, for either of you. Sooner or later, you may want to consider the future. One with John in a more… permanent capacity.’

Normally, watching Mycroft fidget so would have brought Sherlock hours of entertainment. Now, he could only stare, vaguely horrified by his brother’s clumsy attempt at…. At what? Matchmaking?

‘Hello, Mycroft. Run out of wars to start, have you?’

Never, in all his life, would Sherlock forget the tempest of horror and embarrassment that briefly shattered Mycroft’s composure. His brother was not one to swear, but Sherlock could almost hear his internal litany of curses.

‘Doctor Watson.’ Mycroft’s smile looked glassy at best. ‘Forgive my intrusion. I believed you were at work and would not be disturbed by my little… visit.’

John leant against the doorframe, his arms folded and his lips twisted in a crooked smirk of amusement-cum-annoyance. ‘Hmmm. Well, I won’t offer you tea or anything. I’m sure you’re busy.’

‘Of course. I was just leaving.’ Mycroft shot a sharp glance at Sherlock, but if he had anything further to say, he bit it back. Mycroft was not accustomed to even mild humiliation. No doubt he would be wondering how much John had heard of their conversation for weeks, and Sherlock smirked as his brother practically fled the room.

The front door closed behind him, the knocker rattling its farewell. Sherlock cocked his head, waiting for the tell-tale purr of a car’s engine at the kerb. No doubt one of Mycroft’s minions was at the wheel, ready to squirrel him away back into the echelons of government.

John raised an eyebrow, straightening up and approaching Sherlock with a steady stride. Not a prowl, not quite, but a wolfish edge gleamed in his grin.

‘I think you enjoyed that a bit too much,’ he chastised, stopping a short distance away.

‘And you didn’t?’ Sherlock challenged. ‘You take almost as much pleasure in upsetting Mycroft as I do.’ 

John hummed, his smile widening as Sherlock shifted closer. ‘You know you’ll have to tell him eventually.’

‘Eventually.’

Resting his hands upon John’s hips, Sherlock bent his head, his entire body sparking as John melted against him. He smelled like fresh air and tasted of coffee: perfect in every way that mattered. John moaned, a happy, horny sound that made Sherlock’s toes curl and his pulse quicken, intoxicated.

He would not be able to keep his brother in the dark for much longer. Mycroft was no doubt distracted by the current political climate, or he would have noticed within a day or so. As it was, he and John had been given a blissful reprieve. Not just days, but weeks to surrender themselves to one another – to chart this new frontier in one another’s arms and hearts and beds.

They had each other. The world and the Work could wait.


	14. Food: For Melissa

‘When did you last eat anything?’ John hissed, his jaw clenched. He looked as if he would like nothing more than to grab Sherlock’s shoulders and shake some sense into him. Either that or punch him in the face.

Again.

In retrospect, he should not have been surprised. John was never going to take any drug use in his stride. It did not matter that they led separate lives now: John with Mary and Sherlock with the Work. Whether they liked it or not, they were still irrevocably locked within one another’s orbits: stuck in a confusing cocktail of resentment and relief.

‘I eat.’

He should have stayed quiet in the den: let John come and go, none-the-wiser. Instead, he had heard that voice and perked up like a dog hearing its master.

Or had it been deliberate? All this some subconscious bid for John’s attention?

No. No. It was for the case. John had nothing to do with it. John had made that clear from the moment Sherlock had crashed back into his life. Yet while his words – you fucking bastard! – said one thing, his actions said another. 

Aggressive affection. Was that a thing? If so, John was a master. Take now, for example. Sherlock had never seen someone make toast with such ferocity. John banged the plate and slammed drawers, taking his frustration out on the furniture. Yet beneath the scowl that locked his face in its rigor, his skin carried a grey tinge, as if all the vibrancy Sherlock had once known had leeched away.

He wore anger like a mask to hide his fear and pain.

‘Here.’ He thrust the plate in Sherlock’s direction, the toast almost slipping off onto the floor. It teetered on the edge, only to slip back as John adjusted the angle: simple salvation. ‘I – you – you need to eat.’ He clenched his jaw as if he were chewing his own words, desperate to swallow them but unable to prevent their escape. ‘You need to take care of yourself. I can’t lose you again.’

It was no soft confession. Raw and bloody, it sounded like a wound, still bleeding after all this time. Sherlock had hurt him terribly, not just on the day of his staged demise, but everyday thereafter that he did not return. Even then, once he was back in London, it seemed everything he did struck John like a barb.

Well, that had to stop. Now. There were many things in this world he would sacrifice, but not John Watson.

He reached out, accepting the toast that John still held out like a grudging peace offering and taking a bite. It was a silent promise and, in years to come, Sherlock would see it for the turning point it truly was.

That morning, in the cramped little kitchen of Baker Street, they both began to heal.


	15. Temptation: For Star

John knew as soon as they walked into that office that he hated Sebastian. That smarmy smile that bordered on a sneer. Those smooth hands that had never done a day’s hard work. That suit that probably cost more than his yearly rent. 

Then he made light of Sherlock’s so called “tricks”, all the while looking at him like he was a – a freak – and it was all he could do not to slam that arrogant face into the mahogany desk. Or shove him out of the window to enjoy the long drop to the pavement below. Never had he been so tempted to cause another pain just for the sake of watching them suffer.

He kept waiting for Sherlock to put Sebastian in his place, to rip his life and the veneer of his success to shreds, but he never did. 

By the time they walked out of the office, John’s hands were clenched into fists and his lips kept trying to pull back in a snarl. Perhaps it was this place, this bloody bank reeking of greed and wealth and privilege. But no, he could let that go, but the way Sebastian treated Sherlock…

‘It’s all right, John.’

‘No, it’s bloody not,’ he muttered. ‘He treats what you do like a – a party trick – or a con. But at the same time, he’s coming to you for help. Two-faced, arrogant, stuck-up…’ He pursed his lips, biting back the litany of insults.

He looked up at Sherlock, not missing the fond look he received, as if Sherlock was not used to anyone feeling outrage on his behalf. Perhaps he wasn’t. Somehow that just made things worse.

‘Don’t suppose there’s any chance he’s behind this stuff?’ John asked, sighing when Sherlock shook his head. ‘Pity. They’d love him in prison.’

‘Oh, don’t worry.’ Sherlock pushed open the door, stepping out into London’s chill. ‘Sebastian will get what he deserves.’

John paused, frowning in confusion. Sherlock did not believe in any notion of cosmic justice. He had a tendency to take matters into his own hands: far more subtle and elegant than John’s murderous loathing. ‘What did you do?’

‘Sebastian is skimming funds. I’ve notified the board, financial services and HMRC. He’ll find himself in very hot water before long.’

John laughed. He couldn’t help it. He should probably feel a little bit sorry for Sebastian, but quite frankly, the wanker deserved it. ‘So, what now?’ he asked, watching the way Sherlock’s eyes gleamed, bright and beautiful and bloody brilliant.

‘Now, we solve the case.’


	16. Ragnarok: For Heather

‘A codename?’ John’s lips twitched, his eyes sparkling. ‘You gave my wedding to Mary a codename?’

Sherlock glared at Mycroft, who had the good sense to look abashed at what he had just let slip. His nose wrinkled, and he swung his umbrella as he offered a thin smile.

‘Well I must be off. The country won’t run itself.’

John raised an eyebrow at his tactical retreat, turning back to Sherlock and folding his arms. ‘What was it?’

Sherlock winced. Lying and shamming to strangers was one thing, but John was another matter. In his panic, he came up with an excuse that, in relation to him at least, was impossible to believe. ‘I can’t remember.’

John gave him the same look he gave Rosie when she was telling blatant fibs. ‘Want to try again?’ he asked. His face didn’t show it, but a hint of lightness to his voice suggested he was rather enjoying Sherlock’s discomfort.

It was Mycroft who had coined the term: sharp and telling. Now, with Mary dead for several years, it still gave away too much.

‘Sherlock?’

He would not let it go, Sherlock realised. John could be doggedly persistent at the most inconvenient times. Even if he managed to somehow redirect the conversation – even if life conspired to somehow distract them both – John would come back to it later.

No, better to be honest. If nothing else in all their time together, Sherlock had learned that truthfulness was often less painful in the long run.

‘Ragnarök.’

He braced himself, not sure what to expect. John’s anger – at Sherlock’s return and Mary’s death and everything in between – had dulled over the years. It was an old scar now, rather than a bleeding, jagged wound. Yet somehow, this still felt like prodding an old injury to stir up the pain.

John tilted his head, his hands falling to his sides. His right clenched then stretched, his fingers fluttering as if he were trying to shake tension from his knuckles. How many times had Sherlock seen that small gesture over the years, speaking not of anger, but uncertainty.

‘The end of the world?’ He cleared his throat, giving his head a tiny shake. ‘Bit dramatic, don’t you think? Mary wasn’t that bad.’

Tempting as it was to remind John of all the skeletons in Mary’s closet, Sherlock shook his head. As Mycroft had pointed out all those years ago, what mattered was not that John was getting married, but that he was not getting married to Sherlock himself.

At the time, he had sneered and stuttered, but within a week, he could see Mycroft’s point. Not so much about marriage, per say, but about how John’s union with Mary signified an end to their way of life. In Sherlock’s mind, at least, it stood as a point of no return. 

They could never be the Sherlock-and-John they once were.


	17. Intimate: For AnotherWellKeptSecret

Mrs Hudson hid a smile behind her cup, watching John and Sherlock over the rim. They probably did not realise they were doing it: little touches, fixing each other’s clothes or patting down a stray curl without a second thought.

Kids these days, and most adults too, thought love was about what you got up to in bed, or against a wall, or over the kitchen table… Except that sex was everywhere, on every telly show and in all the magazines. There was nothing intimate about that, not any more. It was about touching flushed skin and sharing fluids and not much else. All pleasure and no heart.

She couldn’t say that of her boys. Oh, she had no doubt that sex was part of it. She heard them now again: deep, quiet moans and curses of encouragement, but it was not some quick, casual fling.

No, what they shared was earth-shattering and had begun years before they became lovers. She still remembered it, that first day, both bright-eyed and a little wild, staring at each other like they had finally found the only person in the world who actually understood.

She’d felt like a voyeur, being accidental witness to that. So much in one look: hope and joy and a healthy dash of well-placed fear. They’d put each other through hell over the years, what with Moriarty and then Mary.

Now, at last, they had their happily ever after.


	18. Berries: For Emily

‘Jesus!’

John jumped, whirling around to see Greg backing up from some sort of cage. His torch beam skittered across the wall, dancing in his shaking hand.

‘What – what is it?’ He wet his lips, wishing Sherlock would hurry up and find the damn fuse box. This whole mess was bad enough without having to wander around in the dark.

Greg shook his head, his face sallow as he pointed at the creature within the gleaming bars. It took John a minute to understand what he was seeing before revulsion washed over him. The cockatoo watched him, its eyes gleaming and feathers flat. Sharp claws gripped its perch, but it was the red around its beak and staining its white chest feathers that turned his stomach.

‘Oh, god. That explains what happened to our victim’s eyes.’

A gusty sigh was his only warning before the click of a switch flooded the room with light. Threatening shadows vanished, revealing the benign interior of the mid-terrace property. Mysterious, hulking shapes resolved themselves into nothing worse than a couch and a couple of throw blankets.

‘Wrong.’

Sherlock sauntered over, apparently unconcerned by the eyeball-eating parrot. ‘Think. Both of you.’

Greg shook his head, his jaw slack. John knew how he felt. Logic had done a runner. The red-on-white filled his head with its visceral power. Gore did not usually bother him, but there was something about the bloody spectacle and the bird’s cold, uncaring eyes. They were dinosaurs once, or so people said. Looking at the cockatoo, John could well believe it.

‘They’re vegetarian?’ he managed. ‘Aren’t they?’

‘Actually, no. Like most parakeets and parrots, they mainly eat fruit and seeds, but also consume insects and grubs. Offer this an eyeball and it would probably eat it. No, look at that beak.’

‘Its bloody beak?’ Greg croaked. ‘What about it?’

‘A sharp hook and strong grinding edges. Perfect for demolishing harder substance, not well-formed for plucking out eyes.’ Sherlock waved a hand. ‘Besides, even if not for the fact that this bird would struggle to cause such damage, there is more salient evidence to suggest its innocence.’

The cockatoo fluffed its feathers, its yellow crest flaring as Sherlock indicated their surroundings. ‘A bird that size usually only sleeps in the cage, and the door is shut and latched, meaning someone – probably our victim – made sure it was secure. One assumes she was still in possession of her eyes at the time, since it’s not something you would prioritise otherwise.’

‘And the – the red?’ John gestured to his own face.

‘I’m afraid this cockatoo is guilty of nothing more than enjoying its dinner.’ Sherlock quirked an eyebrow. ‘Berries. Raspberries, to be exact, judging by the packaging in the bin. Messy, but nutritious.’ He cocked his head and shrugged. ‘Though I suppose the same could be said for eyeballs. High in protein, I imagine.’

John sighed as Sherlock turned away, sharing a quick, embarrassed glance with Greg. Not that they should be surprised; Sherlock frequently made them feel stupid. Except this time, he had good reason, and neither of them had a decent excuse for jumping to such a stupid conclusion.

‘It looked like blood,’ John muttered. ‘I’m a doctor. I should know.' It was a weak excuse, but he intended to stick with it.

The cockatoo screeched, flaring its crest and fixing them both with a beady stare as it uttered the one word that Sherlock had thankfully spared them.

“Idiot!”

‘Shut it, bird-brain.’


	19. Freeze: For Melissa

Frost rimed the windows of Baker Street, painting ferns across the glass. The old heating went like the clappers, clanking and groaning in an effort to warm the flat. Most of the time, John loved living here, despite heads in the fridge and bullet holes in the wall. Only on days like these did he think longingly of modern conveniences, like insulation and double-glazing.

Rubbing his hands together, he debated whether to put on another pair of socks. Except that would involve moving from the nest he’d made in his armchair. Here, in a cocoon of blankets and close to the crackling fire, he at least managed to control his shivers.

Evenings like this were rare, these days. Normally, he and Sherlock had some kind of case going on. John blamed the weather. It was too cold to bother with any kind of crime. Everyone was clenching their teeth and keeping their heads down, waiting for the cold to pass. Even Sherlock seemed content to remain indoors.

Experiments had taken over most of their kitchen. John had given up trying to understand what Sherlock was looking at. He suspected it was just an excuse to make a mess. Glassware and dubious things in petri dishes. At least he had stopped using their crockery to grow bubonic plague or something equally horrific.

‘Zero.’ The scrape of Sherlock’s chair on the tatty lino seemed loud after nothing but the pop of the fire and the tinkle of glassware. ‘It’s zero degrees centigrade. Not even that cold, on a global scale. It’s the humidity that makes it feel so much worse.’ He padded away, returning a moment later with something in his hands.

Even now, after knowing him so long, Sherlock could still surprise him. He accepted the offered socks with a smile of thanks. It seemed nothing was beneath the power of Sherlock’s deductions, not even John’s comfort. That, more than anything, warmed him down to his bones.


	20. Flowers: For Heather

Most people’s homes carried some element of their personality, but this little flat in Central London was a blank slate. Pale furniture and touches of silver made up the décor. Stylish, in a no-one-lives-here way. There were no dishes in the sink or wrappers in the bin. Some flowers in a slim vase were beginning to wilt, dropping petals on the glass table, but there was no further sign of life.

At least, not any more.

The woman lay where she had fallen, her eyes vacant. There were no signs of injury, nor anything to hint at a struggle. In fact, the room was so barren of evidence that it looked staged.

Except, of course, for the murder weapon hiding in plain sight.

‘Any thoughts?’ he asked John, handing him a pair of gloves. A quick sweep of the room showed everyone else was protected. Even Anderson had the sense to follow procedure. Just as well. One corpse was enough.

John wrinkled his nose in thought, his absent-minded body language almost as endearing as the competent way his gaze swept the body. A moment later, he crouched at her side, checking her airway before peeling back her lip and looking at her gums.

‘My first guess would have been poisoning, but there’s no signs of vomit in her throat or anywhere else. We’re sure the body wasn’t dumped?’

‘Positive.’ Lestrade pinched the bridge of his nose. ‘This is her home. CCTV saw her entering yesterday with some shopping. No family. No pets. They reported her missing when she didn’t show up for work this morning.’

Sherlock glanced around, noticing how there were no shopping bags or groceries left out. She must have had time to put them away before her fate befell her. ‘What about the flowers?’

‘The purple ones?’ Lestrade glanced towards Anderson as if looking for answer. Pointless. ‘What about them?’

‘Not a common bouquet. In fact, you would struggle to find these blooms in any florist. It’s Monkshood.’

The members of the Yard looked at him, uncomprehending. Only John reacted, turning to Sherlock in surprise before staring at the vase. ‘Really?’ 

Sherlock approached the table, seeing every little detail. ‘Most people know to hack the ends off of flower stems, but these have been done with precision. Whoever gave her these knew their way around plants. Probably cultivated these themselves. Handing her a death sentence was not a mistake.’

John may have stopped describing his skills as amazing quite some time ago, but his expression said it all. The look he sent Sherlock’s way was equal parts amused and impressed, and Sherlock struggled not to bask in the glow of approval.

‘A toxicology screen would have identified the cause of death eventually: monkshood, also known as wolfsbane, can cause cardiac arrest and respiratory paralysis when ingested.’

‘So, she ate the flowers?’

John cut in, answering Anderson before Sherlock could say anything scathing. ‘More likely she touched them, then ate something without washing her hands. Maybe she got sap on her when she put them in the vase.’

‘Find out who gave them to her,’ Sherlock ordered. ‘I suspect you’ll find her killer.’ 

John followed him down the stairs from the neat little flat, leaving the Yard behind to build their case. They knew where to find them if they needed more help. Besides, there was not much more either Sherlock or John could do.

‘You all right?’ John asked, his bare fingers reaching out to tweak Sherlock’s sleeve. He’d disposed of his gloves safely, as had Sherlock, moving on autopilot like a snake shedding its skin. ‘You seem – off.’

Sherlock hummed in agreement. He knew John would never mock him for showing sentiment – not like Mycroft. In this, at least, he could be honest.

‘It’s a shame she was not a student of floriography. The language of flowers,’ he clarified when John raised an eyebrow. ‘Most are insipid, mutable and entirely irrelevant, but Monksbane only has one meaning. Had she understood, she would have known immediately that she was in danger.’

For a moment, their footsteps and the dull rush of London’s traffic were the only sounds around them. Then, John asked the obvious question.

‘What does it mean, then?’

Sherlock sighed, lifting his hand to flag a cab as he gave John the answer.

“Beware. A foe is near.”

 


	21. Ink: For Emily

God, but he was beautiful, John thought, staring at the man in bed at his side. Sherlock slept, his curls twisting across the pillow as the full moon shone through the window, bathing them in pearl. 

The light trailed across pale skin like a lover, kissing the same flesh John had worshipped mere hours ago. Here and there, shadows nestled like pools, lingering in the hollow of Sherlock’s back and seeking refuge in the crumpled lines of the sheet that twisted around his legs.

He looked like a work of art: perfect and untouchable.

‘You’re staring.’

Sherlock’s sleep-roughened voice purred over his words, and John smiled as he saw a gleam of silver between the dark line of his lashes. He should have known that Sherlock would catch him. After all, he noticed everything.

‘Yes,’ John admitted, shameless.

Sherlock stretched, his lean muscles shifting with the movement. It made John’s mouth water. He wanted to kiss and bite, to mark the canvas of Sherlock’s skin with intimacy’s ink. Even now, months after the first flush of their time as lovers, he still found himself caught up within the riptide of his own desire.

He reached out, unable to stop himself, tracing his fingertip down the sinuous length of Sherlock’s spine. He teased at the cleft between his arse cheeks, smirking at Sherlock’s rumble of approval. 

‘Touch me.’ Even if Sherlock hadn’t spoken, his body made the same demands, his legs spreading and his hands reaching for John, urging him closer with mute promises and clinging kisses.

As if John could ever say no to such an invitation.

 


	22. Armoire: For KP

The clothes people wore could speak volumes. They were truths and lies, woven together in an intricate disguise. They made the wearer fit in or stand out: a statement of conformity or defiance. Of course, most people never thought of it in that way. At least, not consciously.

Take the contents of John’s wardrobe. He had lived with Sherlock for years, but still his choices leaned more towards comfort than style. Serviceable shirts hung in a rank along the rail, while thick jumpers stacked folded on the shelves below. Boots, sturdy and stout, dwelt in the shadows at the bottom, waiting to march the streets of London.

Blending in was the idea behind John’s choices. A civilian he may be, but he still wore a uniform of his own making. Urban camouflage to slip unnoticed through London’s streets. 

Perhaps it was no coincidence that John’s wardrobe was more of armoire, the roots of its name seated deeply in the truth of it. To the untrained eye it may be nothing but a place for John to keep his clothes, but Sherlock saw it differently. Those jumpers and jeans, shirts and boots were far more than any kind of fashion statement.

They were John’s armour.

 


	23. Fallout: For Star

‘Did you really think it would be easy?’

Sherlock focussed on doing up his shirt buttons: the slide of cotton reassuring and mundane beneath his fingers. It was a small thing. There was so little in this scenario that he could control, so little he could predict… The fallout of The Fall.

Well, not quite. Dying had been easy. Coming back? That was another matter entirely.

Reflected in the mirror, Mycroft raised an eyebrow. Sherlock had assumed his (stupid) question to be rhetorical, but it seemed he expected an answer. 

How tempting it was to fall back into old ways. To be snide and flippant. Even after all this time away, Mycroft still brought out the worst in him. So knowing and righteous. The epitome of an older brother in all his false wisdom.

Yet his answer broke through that mask of smugness. He saw the sympathy flash in Mycroft’s gaze and curl the corners of his mouth down as he spoke the unembellished truth.

‘I hoped it would be.’ 


	24. Breathe: For AnotherWellKeptSecret

‘I –’ Sherlock’s breath hitched, hard and sudden, so unusual that John twitched at the noise. He was not the only one. Over by the window, Greg stood like a statue, tense and shocked. Even Donovan seemed thrown, her face contorted in a strange twist of confusion and pity.

It was just another day – another case. Except that Sherlock’s skin had taken on an unnatural, grey tinge, and the Belstaff hung from his shoulders like a lead weight. He stood, motionless, his astute gaze unfocussed and his lips parted around shallow sips of air.

At first glance, John could almost tell himself Sherlock had simply slipped into his mind palace. Except, if that was the case, he did not look like he had gone willingly into his memories. No, if anything, he would say Sherlock was having a panic attack: paralysed by whatever association his marvellous mind had made.

Holding out a hand to stop Greg and Sally in their tracks, he approached carefully, making sure to neither crowd Sherlock’s space or block the way out of the room. If the coin-toss of fight-or-flight came down on Sherlock fleeing the scene, then John would rather not be in his way.

He moved normally, neither muffling the sounds of his footsteps or exaggerating them to get Sherlock’s attention. He stood within easy reach but did not crowd close or make a fuss. It wouldn’t help. If anything, it only made things worse.

‘Sherlock?’

He tried not to flinch when Sherlock grabbed his wrist, hanging onto it like a drowning man grasping a lifeline. Dark lashes blinked, and the gloss of sweat on Sherlock’s upper lip only added to his febrile appearance. In all their years as friends and flatmates, John could not remember seeing quite so visceral a reaction. Especially not to a crime scene that seemed perfectly ordinary.

Gently, he clasped his hand over the top of Sherlock’s. It was tempting to cling. John would be lying if he said Sherlock’s behaviour wasn’t shaking him down to his core, but his feelings did not take priority right now. He was here to help Sherlock back from the brink of whatever tricks his mind played on him.

‘Hey just, just breathe, all right?’ It felt like the most pointless advice to offer, but he did so anyway, waiting as the hiss of air between Sherlock’s lips began to even out. He still looked ill: pallid and shaken, but inch-by-inch the desperation of his grip on John’s arm eased.

Silver eyes found their focus. Most people tended to be embarrassed. John knew that’s how he felt when his fear got the better of him. He reacted like a wounded animal, snarling and wanting space and solitude. 

Everyone was different, though, and none more so than Sherlock. John could actually see the wave of logic chasing back the trailing dregs of fear.

‘It’s like Cairo.’ Sherlock wet his lips before shaking his head, just once. If anyone else noticed the tremor in his voice, they were not so cruel as to mention it. ‘Except not. A passing similarity, completely unconnected. It was the brother, Lestrade. If you’ll excuse me...’

In a whirl of dark wool, Sherlock was gone. John didn’t stop him or rush to keep up. Sherlock would either wait for him or not. 

He should have known that this – whatever had just happened – had its roots in the time they had been apart. Those long months after the Fall. It was a hole in his knowledge of Sherlock. They never spoke of it. At first, because John had not wanted to hear it – had not cared about the fun Sherlock had while he grieved so ferociously he thought he might die. Then later, it seemed pointless, like picking at old wounds – doomed to only hurt them both.

‘I don’t suppose you know what happened in Cairo?’ Greg asked, grimacing as John shook his head. He appeared to chew over his words, his expression full of sympathy as he met John’s gaze. ‘You’ll keep an eye on him, yeah?’

John tucked his hands in his pockets, the keys to the flat nestling in the curve of his fingertips like a promise.

‘Always.’


	25. Rain: For Melissa

Water dripped down his neck, collecting under his collar and turning his hair to spikes. His jeans were soaked, the heavy denim dragging at his hips as his socks squelched in his boots. He looked pitiful. John knew that well enough, but he could not bring himself to seek shelter.

It felt good, standing in the empty park as the heavens poured their sorrows on the earth. Maybe he could pretend it was washing it all away: the anger, the pain, the confusion and, under it all, the furious joy of a broken heart made whole again.

Sherlock was back. Alive. Whole. A complete and utter bastard as always, but one who John could see was trying to make amends. He had his reasons for what he had done, for his long, silent absence, but John had not asked for them. It didn’t matter. He didn’t care.

Except he did. He could kick himself for it – how much of a glutton for punishment was he? – but he wanted to know it all. Every moment that he had missed while Sherlock was away. He wanted to go back to Baker Street, to his comfortable attic room and the whirlwind, hectic life they’d led.

He wanted to go home.

John clenched his hand into a tight fist before letting it go again, trying to shake off the phantom tremor that still haunted him. For a long time, it had been Mary: he told himself she was his reason for staying away, but really, she was just his excuse. It sounded awful to say she had been a consolation prize. Not the one he wanted but the next best thing, and yet…

Bollocks, if he couldn’t be honest with himself, then he was screwed.

Mary deserved more than to be second best. That was why he’d broken it off last night. It would have been better if she had shouted at him, but her expressive eyes shone with understanding. She had known it was coming; probably more than John.

She was moving out her stuff as he stood here. He’d offered to help, but his heart wasn’t in it. She’d turned him down with a smile. 

‘You’ve got three months left on this place,’ she had said in farewell, a hint of a smirk toying on her lips. ‘I bet you’re back in Baker Street before they’re up.’

Truth was, he’d be there right now if he could get over his own damn pride. It was what he wanted, more than anything, but the stubborn knot of anger tightened every time he thought of it. No, he wasn’t ready to forgive Sherlock. Not yet, anyway. He’d rather take the time to get his head on straight before plunging back into that whirlwind of crime and adrenaline and the tight, strange want Sherlock inspired.

If he didn’t, the whole thing would probably blow up in his face.

Overhead, the sun broke through the clouds, turning the puddles to mirrors and decking the grass in diamonds. John lifted his face to its subtle warmth and let out a breath it felt like he had been holding ever since Sherlock fell from Bart’s.

He didn’t know what the future held, but Mary was right. Wherever life took him, both Sherlock and Baker Street would be right there at his side. 

And that was just how he wanted it.


	26. Zebra: For Heather

John’s lip curled before he took another sip of beer, torn between wanting to ignore the ghastly sight and being unable to look away. He wasn’t sure what disturbed him more: the tatty ears, the huge eyelashes, or the sorrowful expression of the poor zebra whose head sat mounted on the wall. 

‘Repulsive, isn’t it?’ 

He almost slopped his drink down his shirt in surprise. He hadn’t heard Sherlock’s mum approach, yet there she was, that sly, one-sided smile tugging at the corner of her lips. 

‘Horrible,’ John agreed, wheezing a little beneath her enthusiastic embrace. He wrapped his free arm around her in turn, taking a quick moment to revel in Sylvia Holmes’ unapologetic affection. She was a force to be reckoned with at the best of times, but it had not taken John long to realise that she loved openly and fiercely.

Her behaviour seemed so at odds with Mycroft and Sherlock’s, or so he had once believed. He’d been too wrapped up in himself, he could see that now. First the war and his wound, then the finality of the fall. When Sherlock got back, John had busied himself with Mary…

All that time, all those years, and he’d never really noticed the subtle ways Sherlock showed that he cared. Only when the whole damn lot had come crashing down around his ears had he opened his eyes to what was right in front of him. Not the prickle of want, which had been his companion for too long to count, but love: pure and simple.

A love that had survived thick and thin, and that Sherlock returned in equal, quiet measure.

‘I keep trying to get Reggie to take it down,’ she confessed, ‘but he refuses. He found it in a junk shop and says he feels sorry for it.’

John grinned, unsurprised by Reggie’s reasons. Sherlock’s dad was what John’s nan would have called “a good egg.” Compassionate, empathetic, and he offered a healthy dose of sense to the Holmes family.

‘It’s here to stay, then?’

She sighed. ‘It seems so. The things we put up with for the ones we love…’ She smiled, following John’s gaze to where Sherlock stood by the fire, deep in discussion with his father. ‘I suppose I should be glad it’s just a zebra.’

John thought back to his first month in the flat: to heads in the fridge and guts on the table, like Sherlock was trying to scare him away – or perhaps challenging him. This is me. Is this really what you want?

As if in the end, despite everything, the answer would be anything but “yes.”


	27. Impression: For Angela

here was never a second chance to make a first impression. As if he would want one. 

Sherlock never understood the need for people to make themselves acceptable to others. He was perfectly aware that he came across as cold, abrupt, macabre and cruel. If that was all people ever saw, well that was their own fault for not looking deeper and observing the truth.

He could hardly claim to be lonely. After all, what could most of the people of London offer him in the way of company, what with their boring lives and dull, half-blind existences? He saw everything about them, and they barely did more than glance his way.

Until a few – a very select few – started to pay attention.

Lestrade was the first, looking beyond the guise of drug addiction and indifference to the fire beneath. In his more cynical moments, Sherlock told himself it was only because he was useful. Lestrade needed help solving cases, and Sherlock needed a puzzle or two to keep him sane. It was grudging symbiosis, or at least, that’s how it started. 

Then came Mike and Molly, a pair despite all their differences. Most people would have turned Sherlock away from their respective domains – lab and morgue alike. False pride made many professionals defensive, and few welcomed such an intrusion. 

Mike’s kindness and Molly’s timidity worked in his favour. Perhaps, with different personalities, they would have put up more of a fight. Instead, they welcomed him as if they weren’t quite sure they had any choice in the matter: a weakness of character they both shared that Sherlock could use to his advantage. 

A misjudgement. He saw that now. Time had led to familiarity and offered deeper insight into Molly’s fierce compassion and Mike’s unwavering loyalty. Both, over the months and years, had forced Sherlock to alter his initial assessment into something far more favourable.

Afghanistan or Iraq?

John should have been little more than another face in the day-to-day parade of individuals in Sherlock’s life. In fact, that’s precisely what he’d been aiming for when he limped into the lab at Bart’s. Sherlock rarely saw someone innocent of a crime trying so hard to blend in with their surroundings.

Not that it worked. John was no expert pf disguise, and there was no way he could conceal the remarkable truth of his nature. At least not from someone like Sherlock.

They had needed each other. A simple equation of requiring a room and wanting a flatmate. Yet even then Sherlock had sensed the indefinable potential of the man who stood before him, leaning on his cane and watching him with a solemn, shielded, sharp kind of gaze. 

He was the exception to the rule. Nothing he knew of John in those first few moments had changed in the years since. The flood of information, glorious as it was, had sketched the outline of a masterpiece. Ever since, Sherlock had been filling in the gaps and loving every moment.

Most of the population failed to live up to Sherlock’s expectations, but a rare few were different. 

They exceeded them.


	28. X-Ray: For Melissa

Sherlock peered at the film on the lightbox in interest. It was not the first x-ray he’d had, far from it, but they never ceased to amaze him. In his line of work he saw plenty of them, but they were nothing but the scaffold for a corpse’s cooling meat. 

Here, captured by one intense moment of radiation, they were living, growing structures, sculpted by the body that surrounded them: exquisite. They were the glowing core of every vertebrate creature, haloed and brilliant against the black.

‘Is the pain all right?’

Sherlock hummed, quite content. John’s expression - an endearing blend of amusement, exasperation and pity – softened with a smile.

‘Good. They did give you something pretty strong. Just as well, all things considered.’ He gave a professional nod to the nurse, peering at the X-ray with a doctor’s intrigue. It was not John’s call to make, of course. This was not his territory. Another, less worthy individual would come and tell them what any moron could see, but John spoke all the same.

‘Four broken bones. God, that wanker really did a number on your arm.’

That was an understatement. Sherlock doubted he would ever be able to delete the precise noise it had made when pulled just so. Torsion and abrupt compressive force. A skilled manoeuvre, though it was hard to appreciate it in this moment.

‘Your right arm, too.’

‘And wrist,’ Sherlock added, shrugging his left shoulder. It would aggravate him no end in a day or two, of that he was certain. For now, though, he had good painkillers and John’s presence: his golden skin and ruby blood. His sapphire eyes and ivory bones. A veritable treasure trove bundled up in the form of his friend.

John’s lips pinched, like he was biting back a smile, and Sherlock belatedly realised he may have said that last bit out loud.

‘You’re high.’ John eased him back onto the uncomfortable hospital bed, little more than a bench with notions of grandeur. ‘Get your head down. It’ll be a while before they can wrangle someone to decide what to do with you.’

Sherlock grunted, his eyelids heavy and his vision sliding sideways as he did as he was told. Beside him, he heard the chair creak as John settled into it, resigning himself for a long wait without a hint of complaint.

He could tell John to go back to the flat, but he knew it would be a waste of breath. John was here to stay through whatever ministrations the hospital saw fit to prescribe. Nothing would usurp him, and Sherlock smiled at the thought of such a stalwart soldier. A perfect protector.

His fearless friend.


	29. Tiger - For Emily

Sweat and blood, cement dust and the raucous press of the crowd. The bloom of bruises and the pain of punches thrown and landed. Mycroft would be appalled, which only made a grin tug Sherlock’s bloody lips.

It was for a case, of course, but there was a time when he had done this for money and for fun. Despite what most people believed, bare-knuckle boxing was not so much about strength as it was speed and strategy. As long as he put himself in the right place at the right time, his blows could knock even someone the size of “Tiger” Tyson to the floor.

Sherlock darted back, narrowly avoiding a wild blow that would have smashed his nose. Of course, with impending defeat came dangerous desperation. Tiger was no more a gracious loser than he had been ten years ago, the last time Sherlock had beaten him at his own game.

‘The name,’ Sherlock promised him, his voice pitched too low for the crowd to hear. ‘Give it to me, and this can all still go your way.’

Alas, a furious roar met his generous offer: the noise that had earned his opponent the nickname he wore so proudly. It hummed in Sherlock’s ears and rattled his ribcage: the perfect intimidation tactic.

A flurry of movement, a parody of a dance. Knuckles biting into his ribs even as Sherlock twisted away, joining his opponent in this brutal ballet. It was an old dance: one the two of them knew well. Tyson had more practice, but Sherlock was quicker. A blow, a jab, a twist… It was all over.

Sherlock spat a gob of blood on the floor, running his tongue along his teeth as he twisted Tyson’s arm at an awkward angle. The big man was on the floor, his back to Sherlock and his body contorted. Sherlock’s shoe pressed hard into his knee, his threat implicit.

‘Old injury,’ Sherlock mused, bending to Tyson’s ear as the crowd bayed and cheered. ‘Never been quite right since it happened more than twenty years ago. Give me the name, or I make it a much bigger problem.’

‘Bastard.’ Tyson hissed through his teeth, his struggles futile. Sherlock had the balance and the leverage. ‘Fuckin’ bastard.’ A hint of grudging respect tinted his voice as he raised his fist in the ring’s symbol of surrender. ‘Gallagher. The prick you’re looking for is Dougie Gallagher.’

Sherlock smirked, releasing Tyson and backing away. Not that he needed to worry. The bout was over, and even in this rough and ready world of bets and brawls, there was a code of honour. At least of sorts.

Picking up his shirt and Belstaff off a nearby crate, he threw them over his shoulder. The last thing he wanted was blood on his clothes. One of his Regulars was holding on to his essentials at their patch around the corner: his phone, wallet and a few first-aid necessities.

He’d patch himself up. After that? Well, he had a case to solve.


	30. Pirate - For Futagogo

Once Mycroft said it, well, it made the most perfect kind of sense. Of course, once, a long time ago, Sherlock had wanted to be a pirate. What kid didn’t? Between the ships and the freedom, the heroics and the treasure, it sounded like a brilliant career choice. At least when you were seven and hadn’t heard of scurvy.

The thing was, although he may have grown up, John could still see hints of the wannabe pirate in Sherlock. It bled through in the thrill of the chase along dark city streets. It was there in the roguish hint of his real grin, not the sneers or shamming smiles he gave the rest of the world. Sherlock only played by the rules that suited him and was more than happy to disregard the rest. 

Then there were days like today, when the wind blew just so, and Sherlock lifted his face to the horizon with a peaceful sort of longing. The Belstaff billowed behind him, all swagger and style. The cry of seagulls as they cruised up the Thames only added to the image, and John could almost hear the creak of rigging above his head.

Mycroft thought that Sherlock had left that dream behind but in his more fanciful moments, John could see the truth of it. Sherlock’s mind was his cutlass, and the treasure he sought was the next case, the next challenge, the next mystery…

London was his ocean and his ship, all rolled into one.


	31. Drive: For Amy

“Dull.”

That was Sherlock’s reaction to almost anything that didn’t involve blood and mystery and a heavy dose of danger. Normally, John tried to look on the bright side, but he had to admit, even he struggled to find any silver lining to this.

Bumper-to-bumper traffic and the M1 at a standstill. They’d been sat in the same place for almost two hours while it pissed it down outside. If he was honest, John was amazed Sherlock hadn’t started clawing his own eyes out just for something to do. He wouldn’t blame him. It’s what he felt like doing, and he was the one in the driving seat.

‘We can switch if you like,’ he said, staring unseeingly at the car in front. He’d given up trying to make rude words out of the number-plate an hour ago. Now he never wanted to clap eyes on an Audi again.

‘What would be the point of that?’ Sherlock glanced up from his phone. ‘It’s not as if either of us can drive in this.’ He flicked his fingers, indicating the monotonous view through the windshield. ‘Multiple vehicle incident including a lorry that ploughed through the barrier. Until the wreckage is cleared, we’re stuck.’

John winced, thinking of the drivers and passengers caught up in the accident. ‘Poor buggers.’

‘Well, they’re not bored.’

Once, that kind of thing might have shocked him. Maybe. After all, there was a good chance that at least some people had lost their lives today. Others were in ambulances and helicopters and god knew what else with life-changing injuries.

But at least they weren’t stuck in this traffic.

‘You’re a bad influence,’ John muttered without much rancour, shaking his head. ‘I should be appalled that you even said that.’

A smile tugged at the corner of Sherlock’s lips. ‘But you’re not.’

‘No. No, I’m not.’ John sighed, shifting in his seat to get more comfortable and stretching his legs. Truth was, that wasn’t him anymore. Sherlock was irreverent and frankly careless about the feelings of others at times, but John wouldn’t change him.

Not for the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Want to keep up-to-date on what I'm doing? Head over to [my Tumblr!](http://the-pen-pot.tumblr.com)


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